Page 10 of The Woman in 3B
“What are you doing?” I questioned.
She grabbed a large plastic water bottle from another compartment and began to fill each of the empty glasses.
“Business Class looks like they might be getting thirsty,” she clipped.
My eyes grew in wonder.“No.”
Gemma ignored me and marched down the center aisle, her weapons activated and fully loaded. I watched helplessly from the rear galley, both fearing and eagerly anticipating what she might do next. She paused at a few passenger rows and dropped off single glasses of water, but her eyes remained trained on the front of the plane, like stalking her prey.
When she finally made it to the front of the plane, several water glasses remained on the flimsy plastic tray. She stopped at the third row and bent slightly over the man sitting in the aisle seat. I was too far away to hear their conversation and the plane’s engines were too loud, but I could see the saccharine smile on her painted lips.
My breath caught in my throat when she grasped one of the cups and offered it to the passenger. The handoff was clumsy and inelegant, and the plastic cup slipped from Gemma’s fingers and fell onto the man’s lap. Her body snapped to attention and a manicured hand went over her mouth in mock horror and surprise. It was a familiar act; I’d performed the same routine many times.
Gemma rushed back down the aisle. The false apology on her features morphed into a smug smile halfway down the plane.
“I can’t believe you just did that!” I said when she returned to the rear galley.
“Where’s your bingo card?” she demanded.
“Oh, uh, in my bag,” I stumbled, still stunned at what I’d witnessed.
“Get it,” she commanded. She grabbed a handful of cocktail napkins, presumably for the man in 3B while I retrieved the bingo card from my purse.
She held out her hand expectedly. “You need confirmation for seat specific tasks, right?”
I nodded. “Yeah, but…” I didn’t finish my sentence. The serious look on her face told me it wouldn’t matter to her if I pointed out thatshehad been the one to accomplish the task, not me.
Gemma snatched the card from my outstretched hand and scribbled her flight ID number and initials on one of the open squares.
“There,” she said with finality. “You have my blessing. Let’s win this thing.”
+ + +
Over the next few days, with Gemma’s blessing, I accomplished several more of the bingo card challenges. I’d spoken in a fake Southern accent while obtaining the phone number of a family of four on their way to Disney World. I’d worn a deflated life preserver around my neck on a short flight from LaGuardia to Boston’s Logan Airport. I’d bumped into passengers in-flight while blaming it on non-existence turbulence. I’d checked off one box after another in less than a week’s time.
By the time Wednesday rolled around again—the day of the week I worked First Class for my friend Kent—I was feeling confident. I’d made amazing progress only one week into the competition. My mind was on the remaining bingo squares while I handed out glasses of water and recorded our Business Class passengers’ drink requests. I paused at each row, my eyes not really focused on anything, as I went through the pre-flight routine.
No one had puked on-board for me to assist just yet, but that was bound to happen within the month. The toilet paper gag required I walk the length of the airplane with toilet paper stuck to the bottom of my shoe. I could do that on a Thursday flight to Chicago since it was the smallest plane I worked that month. I still needed to get a passenger to buy me a meal, but similar to the phone number challenge, there were out-of-the-box strategies to achieve that task. And there was still the issue of the Mile High Club, but I really didn’t see that happening; it would be impressive enough to check off all the other boxes. I wondered if there was a cash prize for that.
I was nearly finished with water service and my serving tray was almost empty by the time I reached the front of the plane.
“Can I get you something to drink besides water?” I asked the next passenger.
“Oh! It’s you!” I heard a woman exclaim.
My eyes dropped to the seated passenger. Dark hair with caramel highlights. Bronzed skin. Hazel eyes. An impeccably tailored suit. I typically didn’t take stock of the people who filled the airplane seats unless I was honed in on a specific passenger for the purpose of completing another bingo challenge. I served drinks and snacks to hundreds of people every day. Eventually their faces became indistinguishable from each other. But I remembered her—not only because she was strikingly beautiful, but because I’d embarrassed myself so epically in front of her the week before.
A tight smile found its way to my lips. “Welcome back,” I stiffly greeted.
The woman in 3B seemed to scramble in her seat. “Just a second,” she said as she fumbled around. “I didn’t bring a rain jacket with me.”
Despite her exotic looks, her voice was absent of any accent. I’d naively assumed from the color of her skin, the luster of her dark hair, and the thickness of her lips that there would be the shadow of an accent lightly tugging at her words. But she spoke with a clear and unaffected voice—the sign of a true Michigander.
Despite my embarrassment, her exaggerated antics made me chuckle.
“Can I get you something besides water?” I repeated my earlier question.
“I’m almost afraid to ask,” she said.
